


I Get Carried Away

by orphan_account



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Childhood Accident (Mild), Childhood Memories, Cuddling, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scared Dad Bruce, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-18 15:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dick likes to be held. Fortunately, he's never been short on willing participants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a massive affection for touch-starved Dick Grayson, and his habit of getting carried about by those around him.

Dick loved being carried.

Samson, Haly’s strongman, used to let Dick climb on him before shows, when Dick’s pent up excitement threatened to bubble over into poor form. And, if Samson were feeling particularly generous, he’d pick Dick up and toss him into the air. Dick would try and cram in a flip or two, and then he’d fall roughly back into Samson’s arms. Samson would chide him for his midair antics, calling them a quick route to a broken neck, but Dick only had to bat his eyes for another go.

Bruce wouldn’t so much as touch Dick, when Dick first tottered into the Manor. It was just as well, Dick didn’t want to be touched. But days became weeks which became months, and then Batman and Robin caught Zucco, giving Dick enough closure for the anger to ebb. In turn, his need for attention interrupted the largely separate routines he and Bruce had built around each other. Dick grew restless under the weight of his isolation, and he began acting out. It started with climbing property trees and cartwheels in the parlor room. Bruce didn’t seem to notice, although Alfred scolded Dick on several occasions.

And then, one quiet Sunday, Dick noticed a chandelier that hung tantalizingly close to a spiral staircase. Leaping from the banister to the ornate branches, even when the branches dripped with glittering crystals, was laughably easy. He’d jumped greater distances while running rooftops with Batman. But as he swung himself into an “L” shape, the ceiling groaned. Dick had the opportunity to consider that perhaps the chandelier was not hung to account for the additional weight of a nine year old boy, but then the soft, golden hook keeping the fixture airborne snapped.

Dick didn’t remember hitting the ground, but he did remember blinking up at Bruce’s scrunched up face. Bruce was shouting, and Dick opened his mouth to answer, only to choke out a whimper instead. Pain licked like fire over so much of his body that it all seemed to dull.

“Dick? Dick, look up at me, I need to see your eyes, okay? I need you to look at me,” Bruce’s voice was rushed, panicked, and foreign. Dick pried his eyes open again, having not even realized he’d closed them. Relief washed over Bruce’s expression.

“His pupils are dilated, but they’re the same size. Alfred, come look at him, please!”

“‘M sorry,” Dick mumbled, as filmy images of what happened filtered in through a splitting headache. He tried to shift, but his shoulder lit with a piercing pain and his stomach turned.

“None of that,” Bruce said, reaching out and placing a hesitant hand on Dick’s arm. “Alfred’s gone for supplies from the Cave. We have to make sure your spine is okay, okay? I found you on your back, I don’t- I don’t know if your spine is okay.” Bruce’s voice was rough, and he kept swallowing.

“‘M okay,” Dick mumbled, eyes falling closed. “I broke your thing.” Dick couldn’t remember what it was called, but shards of it prodded his skin and dug into his back. He could feel them in his legs too, that had to be a good sign. He could feel his legs.

“Stay with me, sport,” Bruce whispered. “Alfred’s coming.”

Alfred did, eventually, arrive. Dick’s spine was fine, even his neck. Relying on good instincts, Dick had managed to catch himself on his shoulder, breaking his collarbone but otherwise protecting his more vital vertebrae.

An ambulance arrived, questions were asked and answered, and very opportunistic paparazzi caught some unfortunate pictures of Dick on Vicodin at the hospital.

“It’s amoral,” Bruce snapped to Alfred as he, gingerly, carried Dick back through the Manor’s threshold. Since they’d been gone, Alfred had managed to clean up the debris. “They crowded and took pictures of him like he was an exhibit. He’s an injured child!”

Dick wanted to procure a pun or a quip, but in his limited capacity he was far more interesting in nuzzling Bruce’a suit and basking in being held.

Alfred must have noticed, because he made more of an effort on physical gestures after that.

Still, Alfred was reserved, and Dick was still craving touch and attention when Bruce begrudgingly introduced him to Superman. Being carried by a meta human, one who could fly, was an enlightening experience. Clinging to Clark wasn’t just a comfort, it was a thrill as the air tossed Dick’s hair and the ground stretched away with a rush that not even grappling between high rises could provide. Clark would humor Dick’s joyrides until Dick’s ears popped, at which point Clark would return a windswept Dick to a disgruntled Bruce.

Dick didn’t stop loving the sensation into adulthood. On the contrary, he found new ways to appreciate the touch. Kori carried him often, and it never felt emasculating or threatening. It was exciting, and Dick wasn’t too prideful to admit that Kori’s sheer strength and capability ignited his baser impulses.

He had his baser impulses in mind when he broke into Slade’s safe house. 

* * *

 

Slade noticed the broken window before he parked his car. The glass wasn't shattered, but the ice on the frame was displaced, as if jostled. Or removed, and then replaced. 

With a grunt, Slade opened and drove into the garage. He'd only decided to visit this particular safe house a few hours prior, to pick up a spare uniform; the one in his bag was in tatters after a particularly brutal contract. No one, and nothing, should know his location. Still in his car, Slade checked his cellphone for any reported disturbances from his home security. There wasn't anything, and he slid his phone into his pocket and unsheathed the tanto dagger from his hip. 

He crept into the house quietly, near silently. Nothing was amiss in the front room, nor the kitchen, nor the den. 

Outside the bedroom, however, lay a discarded uniform. Slade picked it up with a frown, glanced at the blue insignia, and then sniffed the uniform (just to be sure.) Satisfied, he sheathed his knife, opened the door, and leaned against the threshold, the uniform tossed over his arm. 

Sure enough, there, hair wet from Slade's shower, curled Dick. Dick smirked up at Slade from where he lay, in only black boxer briefs patterned with red bats. Underneath Dick, Slade could see the sleeve of his spare. 

"You didn't have to remove the frame," Slade chided. "The window opens." 

"The window was locked," Dick offered up, stretching but not uncovering Slade's uniform. Slade pursed his lips. 

"How long have you been here?" Slade asked, stalking around to stand at the end of the bed, just so Dick was forced to shift and crane his neck. 

"Since you set your GPS for this particular safe house. It's a nice one, come here often?" Dick cooed as he toyed with the neckline of his nested treasure. 

"I'm going to need that outfit, kid. I'll trade you." Slade tossed the Nightwing uniform to Dick, who snagged it only to chuck it back to the ground. Slade shifted his weight. 

"I don't want to trade," Dick murmured, still dripping water on Slade's sheets. "I want you to come and get it." Dick rolled onto his back and stretched again. 

Slade snorted. He knew what the kid wanted. He wasn't in any hurry, between contracts as it were, that's why he was humoring Dick's behavior. So Slade decided. 

"You should know better than to play with no good, bad men's things," Slade murmured, placing a knee on the bed. "You might get hurt." 

Dick visibly shuddered, and then licked his lips. It didn't look like he was in a position to quip, so Slade stalked forward, crawling on the bed and hovering over Dick. He crowded Dick between himself and the mattress, and Dick exposed his throat with a grin. 

"You could try," Dick offered, a touch breathily, "but I don't think you want to."

Slade caught Dick's chin in his hand. "Do _you_ want me to?" 

Dick shook his head, bit his lip. Slade frowned. Maybe he didn't know what the kid wanted. But he'd tracked Slade and broken into Slade's safe house, so he definitely wanted something, and he wanted it badly. 

Slade waited patiently as Dick grew steadily impatient. Finally, with a huff, Dick insisted, "You came here for your uniform, right? Why don't you take it." Dick didn't offer it as a question, he presented it as a challenge. 

"You're laying on it," Slade observed, cocking his head. Dick wiggled pointedly, and then Slade understood. He barked out a laugh and sat up on his knees. "Really, little bird? You couldn't ask nicely?" 

Dick flushed. He ran a hand through his damp hair, and grimaced when he remembered it was damp. When it appeared that Slade would not be moved, Dick squeaked out a hesitant, "Please?" 

For a moment, Slade took in Dick's bright eyes and spread, vulnerable form. Then, without further ado, Slade lifted Dick up and slung him over his shoulder while Dick yelped and then relaxed into the hold. "There we go. That wasn't so hard, was it?" 

From where he hung, lax, Dick nuzzled Slade's shirted back and murmured, "No."

Slade shifted Dick, readjusting both of their positions so that Dick's cheek rested on Slade's shoulder and Slade cradled Dick's legs and back. Slade enjoyed having Nightwing's legs in the crook of his arm, where Slade could shatter them in a whim. It only took 4,000 newtons to break a femur, even less if Slade slid his grip around Dick's tibia and fibula. Nevertheless, Slade kept his touch gentle, and Dick practically purred into Slade's neck. 

"You're a cat," Slade accused. "You're a ragdoll cat."

"Meow," Dick offered lazily. His head lolled and Slade shifted their combined weight to further support Dick's neck. 

"If only your rogues knew how easily you're placated," Slade muttered. "I should sell the information, turn a profit on your poor boundaries." 

Dick snorted, and then nipped Slade's neck. "I don't do this for everyone," Dick murmured into Slade's skin. "And you wouldn't even if I did. Do you really think I'd ever come to you again after a catching a lift from Bane?" 

Slade let out a throaty, disgruntled noise and Dick laughed. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rather than update anything that matters to me, I decided to toss in this tidbit instead. maybe i'll churn out good content again, one day

Midnighter stepped from the psychedelic, clementine door and raised his eyebrows at the inconspicuous neighborhood.

“You sure this is the place?” he grumbled, baring his teeth at a neighbor who had curiously peeked from their curtains. The neighbor quickly slipped from sight. “I don’t like fucking around with law enforcement, not even for my favorite nemesister.”

From Midnighter’s arms, Dick let out a pitched whine, nails scratching at Midnighter’s leather and kevlar while his head lolled. Unfocused, blue eyes blinked up, not quite at Midnighter, but Midnighter felt the plea all the same. He swallowed hard.

“Okay, Grayson. Okay. Just stay with me.”

Midnighter adjusted his grip on Dick before marching up to the front door and knocking. He waited a beat, and then he knocked again. And then he kicked down the door.

He stepped over the splintered wood and shouted, “Hey! Come the fuck out, I need a saline drip!”

The suburban foyer, with its bland cream walls and it tasteful accent mirror, remained at rest. Soft, radio pop music drifted in from down the block.

“Grayson, I don’t—” Midnighter began, but Dick punched at his chest. In his state, it was barely a thump against M’s chest plate. M’s chest tightened, and he tried again, voice roughed, “Hey! Dickstroke! Get the fuck out here!”

And, in case he was being too subtle, Midnighter shifted Dick enough to reach over and tear the mirror from the wall so that it shattered on the floor. Dick flinched from his arms, but Midnighter heard a near imperceptible sigh from around the corner.

“Must you?’ A voice rumbled, followed by the appearance of a white-haired man, nearly as tall as Midnighter, and missing an eye. The man wore sweatpants and a t-shirt, he wasn’t expecting their arrival. Midnighter cocked his head.

“Can’t regenerate organs?” M sneered. Another thump against his chest plate reminded him to frown and glance down at Grayson. “He was dosed. Wouldn’t let me take him home, said I could bring him here.” Midnighter paused, assessed the stranger. He swallowed, again. The odds weren’t in M’s favor, not with Grayson nearly deadweight in his arms. “Then again, he hasn’t been in his right mind.”  

“Slade,” Dick hissed, voice strained and weak. M curled his lip while the other man, Slade, jerked his head in the direction of the main house.

“This way,” Slade said, turning and walking briskly away. Marching, practically.

“You better know what you’re doing,” M chided Dick, as he followed Slade. “I’m going to hook you to a computer when this is done. Dip you in toxic waste. Throw you into a lightning storm. You need some fucking powers, Grayson.”

“What he needs,” Slade snapped, interrupting M’s cooing, “is a firm hand. Put him down.”

They’d entered a den of sorts, with a love seat and a plush couch. M glanced at the couch. “You don’t have a bed? He’s suffering.”

Slade scowled. “Carting him about like a ragdoll isn’t better. Put him down.”

With a scowl, Midnighter laid Dick out onto the couch, but no sooner than he did was Slade shoving past him to cup Dick’s face.

“Little bird?” Slade asked. Dick’s eyelashes fluttered. “What drugged him?” Slade asked M, without glancing away from Dick. M coughed.

“It’s not fatal,” M offered. “He needs water, it will pass.”

Slade glanced up, scowling at M. “Source?’

“Alien pollen,” M muttered.

“How?” Slade barked, placing a hand on Dick’s forehead. Dick murmured something unintelligible.

“Stumbled on some unfamiliar flora while helping out an ex-girlfriend in space,” M shrugged. “His. His ex-girlfriend from space.”

“I’m familiar with Princess Koriand’r,” Slade muttered. “Where is she?”

M frowned. He came to store Dick somewhere stable, not be interrogated by Dick’s bad company. “He went without her, she told him to lay off, he didn’t. He’s fine, I’ve gone through every permutation of every scenario, he’s got less than a 6% chance of becoming critical as long as he’s watered.”

“Every permutation?” Slade scoffed. M smirked.

“Computer. In my brain,” M gestured with a toothy grin. Slade didn’t look impressed.

After checking Dick’s pulse, his temperature, the sound of his breathing with an ear placed against his chest, Slade finally stood, and glanced over at M. “Leave.”

M blinked. “No.”

Slade cracked his neck. “Leave, or I’ll make you.”

Dick coughed, his mouth opening and closing as if he was trying to speak. Slade leaned in close, running fingers through Dick’s hair.

“What is it?” Slade murmured, too gently.

Dick let out a few more shaky breaths and then whispered, “Jealous?”

Midnighter barked out a laugh at Slade's expense. It was worth the shot he took to the knee afterwards. 


End file.
